


Graceless Heart

by damalur



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon, Babies, F/M, Radio, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>French and Gold take over the radio station, plot an evil queen's demise, raise a child, start a grand love affair, steal pastries, and mostly remember to lock the door in the years before Emma Swan's arrival. Storybrooke pretends not to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks and much love to Odyle and to Florence Welch, from whom I thieved the story title.

Gold played the radio incessantly. The oddball soundtrack he preferred, which ranged from top forty to the 1940s, was at best a small comfort to the desperate souls who came to his store to pawn their valuables and at worst created such cognitive dissonance in the listener that he or she agreed to a bargain that skewed heavily in Gold's favor. This was not the reason he played the radio, but it was a happy side effect.

_"And you're listening to WMNE, the voice of Storybrooke. It's the top of the hour and we're about to treat you to the sound of the Glenn Miller Orchestra, but before that I think we have a caller—"_

There was little enough to relieve the drudgery of day-to-day existence in the land called Maine. In a world where all but one of his neighbors lived the lives of waking dreamers, even a creature as fond of his solitude as Rumpelstiltskin was driven to boredom. There was only so much time he could devote to exploring technology and history, to searching for some glimmer of magic, to baiting Regina and laying his traps; at the end of the day, Gold had often done no more than trudge to his shop, shift half-heartedly through the enormous hoard of wares, sell some trinket or buy some trinket, update his accounts, and trudge home. 

He wondered if Regina had considered that she'd be just as caged as the rest of them. If this was truly her idea of a happy ending, then his old apprentice was criminally lacking in imagination.

The second Thursday of November in 2007 was much the same as the second Thursday of November in 1997, or the second Thursday of November in 1987. No rent was due this late in the month, so he was free of that routine mundanity, but there was absolutely no hidden trove in his shop or any of his storage places that he hadn't sorted through at least once. Belle had always been amazed that he could point to the exact location of any item in his castle, but really, after a century of knocking around the same place even a home as vast and enchanted as that had been yielded its secrets.

 _"...and that was 'Perfidia,' written by Alberto Dominguez and originally published in 1939. It's been a hit for many artists, but you might better recognize it from the movie_ Casablanca _. Next up is an anonymous request from a listener in the south side. Continuing our tour of the classics, here's 'A Hard Day's Night,' brought to you by—_

Katherine Nolan visited him at half-past noon to purchase a rosary, a delicate thing with marble beads the color of a pale rose, and then Telatia Bee stopped by to pawn her late father's astrolabe. She didn't even know the word for it, silly girl, but she needed the money badly. He doubted she'd return for the thing, either, despite the pained expression that had flitted across her face when she'd handed it over. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon going over his books—or, rather, trying and failing to go over his books. Every time he started reading a column of numbers, his attention drifted. He would never throw himself or those he protected under the wheels of Regina's carriage by seeking out her company, but the idea of going to her simply to converse with a wholly present mind had occurred to him, and that was sin enough. She had no idea that he remembered any life other than this one, and he would fight to keep her ignorant.

The stagnation, though, was less a death than a slow, terrible descent into madness. He couldn't leave, he couldn't act out of the ordinary ways Regina expected Mr. Gold to act, he couldn't—he couldn't even—

He set down his pencil and closed his book of accounts. Clearly nothing was going to be accomplished in that direction today. The malaise that had settled over him in the past decade was dangerous, perhaps more so than complacency, but there was nothing to do but _wait_... 

_"—reminder that Broadway north of Third Street will be closed for the next week for repairs. You're listening to WMNE, and this is Belle French, bringing you the latest news and the greatest songs from the voice of Storybrooke."_

Gold covered his face with his hands and did his best to think of nothing at all.

-

Hours later and streets away, a woman who was as far removed in personality from Gold as the stars were from the sea was nonetheless forcing a similar feat of numbness. She had a permanent residence in Granny's Inn, where she leased one of the basement rooms that Granny had deemed unsuitable for out-of-town guests but, since it was in decent condition, spacious enough, and had a small kitchenette of its own, she was perfectly content to rent out. It was to this suite that Belle returned now, having finished her shift at the radio station. 

She'd done her best to make use of what little natural light came through the ground-level window bank that ran across the basement's east side, but despite her efforts the suite still had something of a cave about it—not, she hoped, in a bad way, but between the candles, the thick area rugs, and the books that overspilled the shelves and were stacked two or three piles deep against the wine-colored wallpaper, the overall effect was of a cozy but crowded den. Still, having a space of her own was a glorious novelty, by far one of the best things about living in Storybrooke.

There wasn't much to compare, honestly—her work was satisfying enough, but she'd never imagined that having all the books in a world and an infinite amount of time in which to read them would feature in her nightmare, not her dream. _Nobody_ remembered that they'd come from a land with magic, except perhaps the Queen, and she was so slippery that her malice might have been instinctual. The people around Belle walked and talked, but it was if the faces she'd once known had been possessed by strangers.

Early on, she'd tried approaching her father, but he'd never known himself to be anyone other than Moe French, local florist, which had been almost bearable until he'd started pressuring her to go on a date with the son of one of his business contacts. He might not have remembered his other life, but he hadn't changed all that much—not like Mary Margaret, who wasn't at all like the young princess Belle had once met at a ball, or like Mr. Gold, who was—who had—

Or like Ruby. Belle had tried befriending Ruby, but she was such a tangled knot of thorns and defenses that she felt more like a collection of traits, like a storybook character, than any real, breathing person—than any woman who lived and loved and hated, who dreamed but woke from those dreams to find herself changed.

Even in Belle's nightmare there were more nightmares; her sleep was hunted by memories of the Queen's prison that chased at her heels and would rend her apart if she ever stumbled and fell. They had faded some with time, but so much as a glimpse of the Mayor's coiffed hair could bring them roaring back for weeks and weeks. Twenty-four years and still nothing made them leave her completely. Maybe, Belle thought, maybe if she had someone to talk to, someone who didn't behave like a paper cut-out of a person...

Twenty-four years, and she was no closer to an explanation. Every day she had to fight against the suspicion that she'd gone mad and conjured all those stories of that other world out of her head. Every day she woke up, walked past the library that had been boarded up and locked for what felt like her entire life, sat in her studio and peppered bits of news and weather between a procession of songs that, unlike the rest of her life, marched forward in time, and then she would stand up and fumble with the lock on the back staff entrance and walk home, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, sometimes reading as she went. 

Every day she walked down the stairs to her basement, and, as she did now, put the kettle on the stove. 

Every day she drank her cup of tea and read the newspaper that Granny left at her door once the morning diners had finished passing it around.

Every day she finished her tea and sat with her empty cup while she surveyed her shelves, looking for a book that caught her interest. The days when she found something were increasingly outnumbered by the days she did not.

And then Belle decided that something had to change.

Without letting herself consciously chose a destination, she set her teacup in the sink, bundled back into her boots and coat and scarf, and marched up through the Inn's lobby and outside. Storybrooke was not a large town, for all its many inhabitants, and a few moments of brisk walking brought her to the narrow road that ran parallel to Main Street before twisting off towards the woods. The sidewalk disappeared for a block beneath a mountain of gravel left over from some abandoned construction project, but Belle managed to keep her balance and within a few yards the pavement emerged again, still slightly uneven but no longer in total disrepair. 

When she reached her journey's end, she had to stop herself from knocking on the door. She did know that if she allowed herself to hesitate it might be another twenty years before she worked up the nerve to go inside, and so without further ado she let herself into the pawn shop.

-

Gold had worked hard to stay away from Belle. He used a thousand justifications—she wouldn't remember him, she wasn't the same person, even if she _did_ remember she'd never want the beast who had thrown her to the wolves, Regina would almost certainly take his interest as a sign that Belle needed to be disposed of—but at the end of the day the truth was that he wasn't a strong man. Whether it took more strength to stay away from her to to go to her he hadn't decided, but somehow it didn't come as a surprise that _she_ found _him_ instead.

He was in his shirtsleeves repairing a picture frame when the bell above the door rang. He was tempted to send his visitor away with a gruff admonishment—dusk had almost settled into night, and he wasn't in any mood to deal with the blank eyes of another displaced person—but when he looked up, Belle was there.

"Hello," she said, not quite meeting his eyes as she let the door fall shut behind her. 

Gold's mouth went dry. "Hey," he managed.

"I thought I'd come in and look around," she said. Her hair was loose around her face, and she wore a gray wool coat with a blue checkered scarf; her cheeks were flushed with cold and exertion. "I've never been to your store before, and, well, it seemed overdue. I'm sorry," she added, and gave the funny sideways bob she did when she felt uncomfortable or embarrassed. "I'm Belle French."

"Yes, I know," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, although not with the fear he would've expected.

"I listen to your radio station," he said.

"Oh!" Belle said. "That's...that's lovely, always nice to meet a fan, although—I'm sorry, you never actually said you liked it."

"I do. Like it, that is."

"Good."

"Is it?" Gold wondered. The whole conversation was running away from him, if indeed it had ever been under his control.

"Oh yes. It's very good." Belle ducked her head and smiled. She was still avoiding his gaze, although, distantly, he supposed that he wouldn't care to meet the eyes of anyone who stared at him quite so blatantly.

"Well..." He spread his hands to encompass the store. "Please, take a look around. If you have any questions..."

"All right, thank you," she said. She was already craning her neck to take in the stock, but not without darting quick little peeks at where he stood behind the glass case that held the wedding rings and other fine jewels. 

She seemed particularly drawn to the pieces he'd displayed in the great hall back home: the golden fleece, the puppets, the goblet, the scythe of some long-ago warrior. Her face was a little more drawn than he remembered, even after that last, terrible night, but she was otherwise unchanged. Gold wasn't sure that his heart had yet recovered from the first shock of seeing her alive twenty-four years ago, but that was an affliction he was more than willing to suffer if it meant she hadn't thrown herself off a tower in despair.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked.

"Not really. Just...looking." She reached out a finger and gently stroked the head of the stuffed bear that had been molding next to a rack of hair ribbons for god only knew how long. Her hand drifted next over a set of antique model horses before settling on a compass that hung from a leather thong beside the ribbons. When she picked it up and opened it, the needle spun wildly clockwise and then counterclockwise before slowing to a gentle oscillation and then, finally, halted with the point settled straight at him. "It's so dark in here," she said. "How do you see anything? Are there any more lights?"

"Ah," Gold said. "Unfortunately, I seem to have nailed the curtains shut—"

Belle dropped the compass.

Gold froze. Her expression was—

"I'm sorry," she said, and pressed a hand to her mouth. The compass had cracked, and the lid of the casing had broken off. The separate pieces clattered to a halt at her feet.

"I don't care," he said immediately.

"Oh, but—you have to let me pay you. How much was it worth?"

"It's priceless," he said. "I don't care. Dear—"

She had to _say_ it. He couldn't risk everything on such a slim hope, not when his life and hers were the stakes.

"God," Belle said. "You remember...don't you, Rumpelstiltskin?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And shortly hereafter, hijinks will ensue. (I hope. This story was supposed to be funny, but the characters seem to be going for sappy instead.) Thanks to much to everyone who commented; I'm still sorting through reviews, but I very much appreciate the words of encouragement!

Belle was bewildered when, instead of answering her, Rumpelstiltskin circled the counter and walked straight past her to the door. She had a brief, fraught vision of him forcing her out, driving her away because he thought her mad or because he still didn't want her. Maybe he'd never wanted her; a handful of tender encounters did not true love make and, after all, Belle now knew from personal experience just how dearly the Queen lied. He was going to throw the door open and snarl at her to get out—

Or he was going to turn the lock and flip the sign to 'closed.'

He rested his hand against the glass pane for a moment, giving her a glimpse of the heavy ring he wore on his forefinger, and then he turned to face her. Belle really wasn't sure what to say; how did one reintroduce oneself to the love of one's life? 

There wasn't a book for this. There wasn't even a pamphlet—and, even if she wasn't the love of his life, he was the love of hers. She'd figured that out herself, during one of the long nights in the Queen's chambers when she'd curled up as best she could inside her shift on the stone floor. He was a pompous, sad, terrifying man who thought so poorly of himself that he served as his own worst enemy, and her love for him didn't mean that she would allow or excuse his wickedness, but...he was hers.

"Belle—" Rumpelstiltskin said.

"I love you," she blurted.

The haggard lines of his face softened into adoration. "Say it again?" he asked.

"I love you. I'm in love with you," she added, at the same time he said, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she said.

"That is to say, I—" Rumpelstiltskin looked positively terrified, but even that couldn't disguise the elation that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I love you, too, of course."

"Oh," Belle said, and then she smiled. "You probably aren't going to throw me out, then."

"Likely not," he said. They were still standing some four feet apart; Rumpel had his back to the door and was gripping his cane so tightly she imagined she could hear his knuckles creak. When Belle took a step towards him he reached out a hand to her, but then he jerked away, and his eyes shuttered again.

"Sweetheart...no. We can't."

She should've known better than to let herself hope— "Rumpelstiltskin?"

"The Mayor," he said. "She can't know that you know, and if you and I are seen together it would...exponentially increase the difficulty of navigating an already impossible course. She would kill you," he said, bluntly.

"So you're saying—" Belle swallowed. "What you're saying is that I have to go on exactly as before, pretending that I'm some living corpse who dances and jumps at Regina's whims? That I can't speak with the only other person who can tell me I'm sane?"

"I'm saying, dearie, that I'd rather see you sad than dead."

"And then?" Belle said. "You go back to your life and I go back to mine and we pretend we don't know each other?"

His expression was etched from marble, every bit as passionless as it was that day in his dungeons a lifetime ago, but then as now, his eyes told a different tale. He might have thought himself unreadable, reptilian, but in his gaze Belle saw enough, and some fierce hunter that lived behind her ribcage and below her heart stirred for the first time in an age.

"That," Rumpelstiltskin said, "is precisely what I would say."

"What would you say if I told that, truly, I would go crazy if I can't have you to talk to?"

His forefinger twitched against the grip of his cane, but he said, "Then I would invite you over for a discreet cup of tea once every few weeks, and you could talk to your heart's content."

"Tea," Belle said.

He couldn't resist rubbing salt into the still-bleeding wound. "We would be fine friends, dear."

"Friends," Belle said. "So I'm supposed to keep pining away for you from afar, is that it?"

"That's not what I said. There's no reason for you to be miserable."

She could only guess at was he was thinking behind the mask he wore for a face, even if his sentiment was obvious. "That's your plan?" she said. "Really?"

"What would you have me do?" He twisted away and pushed past her; Belle's heart jumped when his fingers brushed against her bare wrist, but he continued as though the touch had been accidental, as if he hadn't touched her at all. When his back was safely to her he braced his hands on the counter and said again, quietly, "What would you have me do? Take you out to dinner and watch Regina carve out your heart? There's more riding on this than you know."

"Then tell me! You're being a—"

Rumpelstiltskin turned on her, his lips drawn back to expose his teeth in a display only a fool would take for a grin. 

"A coward," Belle said. "How far are you willing to take this? Are you going to wash your hands of me in public? Denounce me to the Queen? Am I supposed to take a lover so you have deniability?"

"Do what you want," he said, and turned his back again. "I don't care, dearie. We've been through this before."

Belle was so furious she was crying. She drew back her hand—she wasn't sure if she actually planned to slap him, but the intent had occurred to her—and started forward, only to step on the cracked casing of the compass. Her ankle gave out and all at once she was falling—

And then Rumpelstiltskin caught her, as neatly as if he'd anticipated her stumble. 

"Oh," Belle said. She'd landed with one hand against his shoulder and the other against his chest, and beneath her palm, his heart was hammering.

"You must leave," he said. He was pleading, and his hands were still clamped around her elbows like vises. His face was near enough that his breath stirred her hair.

"Must I?" Belle said.

He leaned even closer, and she wet her lips and craned her neck upward, but rather than kiss her he said, "Yes."

"I don't want to leave," she whispered. "I only have—have a little idea of what you're keeping from her, but I _want_ this. You have no idea how I want this."

"Ahh, I have an idea," he said, matching her low tone.

"I don't think you do," Belle said, drawing back; as she'd hoped, he chased her mouth reflexively before remembering himself and retreating.

Belle looked at him and thought about the hand she'd been dealt, and then she took a breath and flung her cards to the wind.

"Whatever repercussions, whatever horrors she could visit on us—I'm willing to take that chance. If you aren't, I understand, but if your first reservation is the danger I would be in...I've been trapped here, Rumpelstiltskin, and before that I was trapped in a tower, and I would risk everything I am for one more hour in your company. However you decide, I will respect your decision, but don't turn me away for my own good."

"This is—" He sighed. "This is a terrible idea. It's a danger to both of us and to everything I've worked for, and we would have to be utterly discreet."

"I," Belle said, "am absolutely the soul of discretion."

"Thank god," he said, and then he snatched her forward and kissed her again.

Belle reached up and wound her fingers though the hair at the back of his head so he couldn't pull away, not that he tried; instead he backed her towards the rear of the shop, relying on her to steady him as they stumbled along. 

"Windows," Belle managed to gasp, before his mouth fastened over hers again.

"Yeah," he muttered, and then guided her round the counter and through the curtain to the back room. His hand had slipped under her coat and up the back of her blouse, and the feeling of his warm fingers splayed against her spine sent an inferno roaring up her back and though her limbs. "That was stupid," he said against her throat."

"So stupid," Belle groaned. "Not discreet at all. We'll—ah!" He'd set his teeth into the skin just above her collarbone. "We'll have...to do..."

"Better?" he prompted, and Belle smacked him on the shoulder. He laughed, soft huffs of amusement that she more felt than heard, and suddenly Belle was laughing with him—giggling, really, and at the sound his laughter rose in pitch to join hers. He cupped the side of her neck and brought their foreheads together, and the joy Belle felt in that moment was worth a thousand years of imprisonment. 

"We really will, you know," she said, once she'd gotten herself under control enough to speak. "We can't be careless about this."

"No," he said, but he was stroking her hair now, and his attention was more on weaving her curls through his fingers than on what she was saying. Belle felt a little better, knowing he was as stunned as she was.

"Rumpel," she said, and waited until he looked at her. "No more windows. We can't do things like that, not where anyone could see us."

"No more windows," he echoed. "We'll need a way to communicate...nights will be better, when she's occupied with her son or the Sheriff."

"We could—Graham?" Belle said. "With _Regina?_ "

"She has his heart. Well, she did, in the old world, although she has her ways here. He'll keep her busy enough."

Belle shuddered delicately. "That's awful. It's—is there anything we can do? She's violating him!"

"If we approach her, we tip our hand," Rumpelstiltskin said. He tugged her over to his desk and lifted her up on it— _that_ sent another jolt through her nerves—and stood between her legs, seeming determined to keep her as close as possible. "If we knew where she kept his heart, perhaps..."

"We're sneaking around anyway," Belle said. "We might as well do something productive other than—you know."

"Do I? You'd better show me," he suggested. 

Belle rolled her eyes and kissed him again. "I could drop notes in your mailbox," she said, pulling away.

"Carrier doves," Rumpelstiltskin said.

"Radio broadcasts," she said. "Secret words or...oh, Morse code?"

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I was thinking perhaps disposable cellphones, but that isn't half so..."

"Dramatic?"

"Romantic," he said, and then looked down, revealing the bashfulness she remembered from long ago.

"Practicality is romantic," Belle declared. "Should I buy them, or you?"

"I'll make arrangements and a set of keys. And now..."

"And now?"

He traced her jawline with his thumb. "And now you should leave. Not forever," he hastened to add, clearly concerned she would start yelling again, "but I should be open at this time. People might notice that the shop is closed."

"I know," Belle said, and let herself have a moment to bury her head against him and take him in, absorb his scent and the texture of his suit coat under her cheek. When he stepped away from her it was with obvious reluctance. She hopped down from the desk and reached out to straighten his tie; he returned the favor by setting her coat to rights and fastening the top two buttons of her blouse, which had come undone under his nimble fingers.

"All right?" she said.

"Beautiful," he said. "Go. I'll get a message to you."

"Good," Belle said, "until then," and then she left, before she could no longer bring herself to do so.

-

Rumpelstiltskin spent the next days applying himself to logistics. For the cellphones, he took refuge in audacity and purchased three dozen. He was careful to let Regina discover him in the process of taking them apart; when the bell rang to announce her arrival, they were strewn across the counter in multiple stages of disassembly.

"New project, Mr. Gold?" she said. She was terribly predictable; once every few weeks she would deign to track him down to reassure herself that he was still running on the same staid tracks, and then, satisfied, she went back to ignoring him until the urge to taunt him or her fear grew too great.

"Mm," he said, and allowed a flicker of misplaced frustration to show on his face as he played at prying the battery out of the casing. "Someone's been misinforming me. These blasted things..."

He didn't even have to manufacture a project; her hubris filled in the rest. "Not so gifted with technology, are we?" she said, taking the phone from him and popping the battery out with the edge of one of her long fingernails. "You should hire someone to bring you up to speed, Gold. This is the age of the internet."

He scowled at her, but took the battery from her all the same. "Yes, well. I've managed this long."

"And I'm sure you'll continue to hobble along somehow," Regina said. She arched her brows at him, daring him to take offense.

"Was there something you wanted, Madam Mayor?"

"Only your continued wealth and success. Storybrooke's local businesses are an invaluable part of our fair town." She ran her hand along the countertop and then rubbed her fingers together, ostensibly checking for dust, and when he didn't react at her obvious mimicry she smiled. "I must be going. Good afternoon, Gold."

"Better when you're gone," he muttered, timing his words to fall between the heavy fall of her shoes. Good girl. She might rule the town, but he knew her, and it was that which would allow his affair with Belle to pass unnoticed.

Once he heard her car purr to life, he started the laborious process of piecing together thirty-four cellphones from an enormous mountain of parts. The thirty-fifth phone had been delivered to Belle late last night; the thirty-sixth was in the pocket of his heavy wool coat. When he judged a safe amount of time had passed, he went to the back room and took it out to scroll through the messages.

 _Bored_ , Belle had written him. _Hiding in the bathroom at work thinking of all the questions I have for you._

 _There's a surcharge for answers,_ he typed back.

A few moments later, the phone's screen lit up. _Of course there is. Price to be determined at a later date?_

_We'll work out a payment plan. Ask._

Her first question made him chuckle, not that he'd admit it. _Why is your house pink?_

 _It isn't pink, it's salmon,_ he sent her.

 _Salmon is pink,_ she wrote almost immediately. _I'm not paying for incorrect or incomplete answers, by the way._

_That doesn't give me much incentive to answer._

This time there was a much longer pause before her next text message arrived, but the wait was a small sacrifice for what she'd asked: _Do you love me?_

_Yes._

_What's the charge for knowing that?_

_That, my darling,_ he wrote, _is a price you've already paid._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odyle is a godsend. Haha, wow, I have no apologies for this (and, needless to say, none of the quoted songs are mine!).

"You weren't!"

"On my honor," Rumpelstiltskin said. "The Fairy Godmother in _Cinderella_ , too."

"That I would believe," Belle said, shifting her feet in his lap. There were on her bed—fully dressed, although that sorry state wouldn't continue for long if she had her way—and while he was sitting with his back to the wall, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked under his opposite knee, Belle had felt comfortable enough to sprawl out, not even taking care to tuck her skirt down around her thighs. "Those movies are absurd. I can't believe you've seen them."

"I got curious," he said. "It was a long decade."

"Did you know Captain Hook?"

He tapped out a nervous rhythm against her bare soles. "I did. He was...I'm sorry, love, that was not a period of which I'm particularly proud. I'll tell you about it some other time."

Belle shot him a look.

"A free answer," he promised. "Consider it a gift to be redeemed at a later date?"

"I'm holding you to that," she said, and poked him in the ribs with her toe. He was inconceivably happy to be allowed here, in what couldn't have been more clearly marked as Belle's personal space if she'd hoisted a flag outside the door. It was a risk, too, but a calculated one; his car was still parked at the shop, and Belle's basement suite had an outdoor entrance that opened on a deserted alleyway. He'd made a habit in the past month of letting himself be seen on more than one late-night stroll, but then, it wasn't like anyone was ever suspicious when they caught him lurking.

"What other ones have you seen? Are they all true?"

Rumpelstiltskin sniffed. "None of them are true. _The Black Cauldron_ was complete rubbish. And as for _The Sword in the Stone_ — Merlin was a half-rate state magician would couldn't hold his own in a real dual if the life of his featherbrained familiar depended on it."

" _Mulan?_ " Belle asked.

"Not an idea," he had to admit.

"It's funny," she said. "What makes it through and what doesn't, I mean. Is it a side effect of the curse, that everyone here thinks we're fairytale characters?" 

"That could be, but I doubt it. Stories have a way of falling through the cracks between worlds."

"We're going back to that. All right, what about _Aladdin?_ "

He lifted a shoulder. "More or less."

" _The Emperor's New Groove?_ " 

"I think not."

"Mm," Belle said. " _Beauty and the Beast?_ "

Rumpelstiltskin stopped breathing—regrettable, since without his power that was a sadly necessary function. "That one—" he managed.

She pulled her feet back and levered herself upright so she could look him properly in the face. "It was optimistic," she said.

"Hopelessly so."

"I liked it."

"Of course you did."

"It did make me wonder why you never made the silverware dance for me, though," she added, and like that the tension snapped. "Shame, I would've like that."

"I will...keep in mind your love of jigging cutlery."

Belle smiled with all her teeth, and Rumpelstiltskin was forced to wonder if this was how other people felt when _he_ cornered them. "Oh, that isn't the only thing I love."

"Well I'm not going to sing a song for you, dearie," he said, and tweaked her nose.

Belle burst out laughing. "You don't have me fooled," she said, between little spurts of giggles. "You know all the words to all the musical numbers, don't you?" 

She squealed when he pounced and dragged her down on the bed. He caught her hands and pinned them lightly to the mattress when she tried to roll away, but even that couldn't stop her amusement.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she said, trying and failing to hold a straight face. "Rumpel, can you paint with all the—" She snorted loudly from the effort of containing her glee. "Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?"

"Oh ho ho, you'll be paying for—wait," he said. "Why would you believe I'm a _fairy?_ "

"They're magical and grant wishes," Belle said. "That's sort of what you do, isn't it?"

"No. No, it isn't, and I am not like a fairy. For that I'm keeping you here." She batted her eyelashes at him in the kind of outrageous display she only ever put on facetiously. "Now, none of that," he said. "Don't think you'll be able to flutter your way out of this one."

Belle heaved a dramatic sigh and relaxed beneath him. "I suppose I'm to be ravished now."

Rumpelstiltskin drew back. "If you really don't want it..."

"Can't escape fate," she said cheerfully, and tugged him back down by the nape of his neck. "Ravish away." She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, exposing her throat; the barest hint of a smile played at her lips. When he didn't immediately respond, she cracked open an eye. "Go on," she said, "start ravishing."

"I feel like a character in one of those cheap paperbacks Tom Clark sells on a wire rack," he complained. 

"Hm, let's see," Belle said. "Is my bosom heaving?"

Rumpelstiltskin inspected her critically. "Impossible to tell at this distance," he said. "Investigation appears to be the order of the day, my dear, provided you have no objections."

"Well, if it's for _research_ ," Belle said, and drew him closer still.

-

Of course, he stupidly thought that was the last he had to hear of fairies or the like at all. Unfortunately, his suitor had other ideas. She let him have just enough time to lower his guard, and then she proceeded to drive him insane in the most subtly thorough way imaginable. 

He still listened to WMNE; it had, after all, been for many years his only solace, and should Regina intrude while the radio was playing, he at least had the excuse of it being the only local station. This, though? This was intolerable.

 _"Met someone just the other day said, 'Wait until tomorrow,' I said, 'Hey, what you doing today?' 'I'm gonna do it tomorrow!'"_ Belle's voice cut in over the fading strains of the music: _"That was Echo and the Bunnymen. We'll be back later for an interview with local businesswoman Granny Lucas, but until then, it's theme o'clock. If you can guess what all our songs this hour have in common, call our toll-free number. First caller wins a gift certificate for dinner and drinks for two at Granny's Diner. Once again, our toll-free number is—"_

He growled lowly, under his breath. Today's project had been an antique cuckoo clock he'd unearthed at his storage facility near the docks; the thing was badly in need of cleaning, oiling, and a fresh coat of paint, but it was growing increasingly difficult to summon the concentration needed to work on such delicate parts. He'd intended to present it to Belle as a gift when it was in working order, but now he thought he'd be better off trashing it and giving Belle a vial of discretion instead.

When Rumpelstiltskin heard the opening notes of her next selection, he dropped his paintbrush, drew back his foot, and kicked at the base of his display case—which did nothing other than knock a few glass unicorns to the floor and make his toes throb. She hadn't played this song since '98, and it still hadn't been long enough since he'd last had to hear it.

" _The rain falls down, I'm soaking through, I'm an old man inside a young man's suit—"_

He stomped over to the radio and tried to switch it off. Regrettably, the radio had, in relative terms, been assembled only shortly after he himself had been born, and the power switch was stuck. The best he could do was turn the volume down until the music was faint enough to be mistaken for a wasp's buzzing, but after a few minutes of cleaning his brush set even that grew intolerable. He stomped back over to the shelf where the radio sat like a king on a throne and started hunting for the cord.

And _that_ was plugged into a socket that had outlived at least one god. He gave the line a couple of cautious yanks, but the faceplate quivered alarmingly and, upon closer examination, it seemed like the whole outlet was in danger of falling out if he pulled too hard. He should probably have an electrician take a look at it, but instead he went in back and threw the circuit breaker—something he usually did on his way out, since it saved having to switch off all twenty-three lamps that illuminated his store.

He had to fumble for his coat and keys in what dim lighting struggled through his windows, but then, cane in hand, he set off into blissful silence. The radio in his car was set to WMNE, but the power switch on that was functional; he turned it off and drove to Maycomb's Hardware & Paint with only the purr of the engine for company. Maycomb was late in paying a loan he'd extended to her for the purpose of expanding her facility, and now was as good a time as any to collect.

He stopped his car in the no-parking zone, confident that nobody would dare tow him, pulled open the door—

And was greeted with the sound of a familiar alto voice playing over the loudspeakers.

_"—won't be giving you the artist as a clue anymore. The hour is almost over, but we still have a few songs left for you—nobody has as of yet guessed the theme. Remember, you can call at any time to win dinner for two at Granny's Dinner. You're listening to WMNE, and this is the next song in the soundtrack of your day."_

Rumpelstiltskin gritted his teeth. Maycomb was helping a customer go over a display of different lengths of wire, but when she saw Rumpelstiltskin looming at the end of a row she excused herself and all but ran down the aisle, looking more like a frightened lamb than the woman who had once been the darling of nobles in a hundred realms for the artistry of her castle designs. Her dark skin was streaked with chalk dust from fingertips to elbows, and he had to take a step back when she approached to avoid being covered in fine powder as she tried to clap it away.

"Mr. Gold," she said. "Listen, I know, I _know_ my loan payment is due, and I can give you half now and half next week—with a markup in interest, even—"

"Those weren't the terms of our agreement, dear," he said.

"Please," she said.

"I run a business. Surely, as a fellow businesswoman yourself, you can understand my position. If I let everyone rewrite the terms of my contracts to suit their own purposes, I'd hardly turn a profit, would I?" 

_"Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own, but the biggest kick I ever got—"_

Rumpelstiltskin hated that he recognized this piece of trash and, worse, knew all the lyrics, but a quarter-century of constant exposure to the radio meant he'd had an awful lot of time to absorb popular culture at its lowest. Oh, Belle was going to pay for this.

"...Gold? Mr. Gold?"

He jerked. "Mrs. Maycomb. 'No' is my answer, and my answer it will remain. Either you write me a check today or I take my collateral."

"I can write you a check if you promise not to cash it until Thursday—"

_"Long nights crying by the record machine, dreaming of my Chevy and my old blue jeans, but they'll never kill the thrills we've got..."_

"—and you can keep the circular saw until then," Maycomb finished. 

"Do you have a phone?" 

"Excuse me?"

"Do you," Rumpelstiltskin repeated, "have a phone." Overhead, Belle reminded everyone that no caller had correctly guessed today's theme and that the phones were still open for another three minutes. This was going to be a terrible idea.

"Yes," Maycomb said, obviously baffled by his sudden derailment. "It's at the back register. Is there something...?"

"Let me borrow it right now and you can pay me when you have the money, so long as it's no later than the end of the month."

"I—? Yes, of course," she said. "Straight back, can't miss it, but you have to press '1' for outgoing calls!" By the end of her sentence, she was talking to his back; if he hadn't left both of his cell phones in the glove compartment he'd have his payment already—she had extra cash squirreled away for emergencies and they both knew it—but he could take a cut this one time.

He dialed the station number from memory and bit at his tongue until Belle picked up.

_"You've reached WMNE, Belle French speaking. Can you guess today's theme?"_

"Crocodiles. All the songs mention crocodiles," he said.

Her breath hitched when he heard him speak, but she did an admirable job of keeping herself together. If she didn't tear into him later for pulling this stunt, he'd be disappointed. 

_"Crocodiles it is,"_ Belle said. _"Can I put you on the air?"_

"I'd prefer to remain anonymous, for obvious reasons."

He listened to her inhale shakily once more. _"Right. Well, your tickets will be here. You can pick them up between eight and five—"_

"Keep them," he said, just above a whisper. "Take yourself out. No more scalies, though?"

_"We can...I can do that. You're sure, about the dinner?"_

"Oh, I'm positive."

_"Good. Yes. Thank you for calling WMNE, the voice of Storybrooke."_

"Until later," he said, which was as close to a promise as he could make in public, and then he hung up before he made another foolish mistake.

"Mr. Gold?" Beth Maycomb said. "Do I need to get that in writing, or...?" Her hands were fisted in the front pockets of her apron.

He waited three heartbeats to pull himself together and then turned around to face her. "You have my word."

_"—an anonymous caller who donated the tickets to the station. Again, today's theme was 'crocodiles.' It's almost the top of the hour and you're listening to Belle French. We're back with another song before our next commercial break—here's a little bit of Queen to get you through the afternoon."_

"Good enough for me," Maycomb said. "And—thanks."

"Don't spread it around," he snapped, and then collected his cane and started for the door. 

_"My fairy king can see things,"_ Freddie Mercury sang. _"He rules the air and turns the tides—that are not there for you and me..."_

He hoped Belle never stopped teasing him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update until after Christmas. Share and enjoy!

Belle was sitting at the edge of the wishing well when he arrived, balanced on the low wall with her back wedged against the upright beam that supported the well's little roof. She had a book open on her knees, and studiously disregarded him as he approached. He felt a brief pang of worry that she would overbalance and topple into the pit, but—no, she hadn't come so far to be killed in so ignominious a death as that. He could stifle her with his worry, smother her in his efforts to keep her safe; she would never be the same if he broke her trust in that way.

He took the opportunity to lean back against the low wall beside her, propping his cane up as he stared out at the treeline. The woods were just beginning to burst into bud, little green shoots poking their heads above the dry leaves that carpeted the forest floor; it was at this time of year more than any other that Maine reminded Rumpelstiltskin of the Enchanted Forest where so much of Regina's petty drama had played itself out. The winter was near enough to the weather in the land where he'd been born that he felt comfortable hating it, but spring was...something different.

Give him a good mountaintop any day, though. Mountains were magnificent and remote—nobody bothered you when you lived on a mountain, and if they did, well, they got what they deserved, if they were turned into foliage or livestock. Nobody bothered you if you lived on a mountain.

"Come here often, stranger?" Belle said, breaking into his thoughts. She hadn't looked up from her book.

"Every third Tuesday," he said, still studying the forest. "Provided the weather is fair."

"It's Saturday," Belle pointed out.

"I make exceptions for assignations or other secret meetings with lovely women."

"Mmm," Belle said, and turned a page. "I don't think your girlfriend would like to know that you're running off in the woods with strange ladies."

"Are we roleplaying now?" he said, with increased interest despite an effort to remain otherwise.

"Just being silly, I think. Would you like that?"

"I...don't know."

"Nor do I," Belle said. "We'll have to figure that out together some other time." She licked her forefinger and turned another page.

"Good book?"

"My favorite," she said. "This week, at least."

He couldn't resist turning to her then; the sunlight turned her deep hair to mahogany, honey, and ash; she wore a long skirt but had kicked off her boots, and her bare toes were curled around a stone that jutted from the well's side. Next to her boots was a canvas bag with the WMNE logo partially obscured by the fabric's folds. Under his scrutiny, she placed a cloth marker in her book and, finally, closed it.

"Hi," she said, looking up at him with those brilliant blue eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Hey," he said, and then, slowly, softly, inevitably, he leaned in and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft, unimaginably giving beneath his own, and he knew from experience that if he pressed she would turn to liquid in his arms.

He trailed a line of kisses down her chin and across her jawline and finished by pressing his lips against her throat with all the delicacy of a brush of a wing. She shuddered.

"The cabin?" he asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ears.

"The cabin," Belle agreed; but it was a long time before she let him go at all.

-

The sun had set by the time they'd nested into their retreat; the evening chill had set in, and Belle was dismayed to realize that a late frost might destroy the daffodils that had sprouted beside the cabin's steps. There was only a space heater and a stack of quilts for warmth—that, and the kettle Rumpelstiltskin had promptly put on the stove to boil. Belle had attired herself accordingly, in a long t-shirt that fell almost to her knees and a tall pair of socks that rose almost to the shirt's hem. Any potential eroticism should've been ruined by the garish yellow-and-teal argyle pattern of the socks, but Rumpel was still looking at her as though he wanted to eat her alive.

He was himself as undone as she'd ever seen him. She'd had him with his suit in varying stages of disarray—the tie undone, the jacket off, the shirtsleeves rolled back—but never had he stripped out of his suit entirely in front of her, and that itself was an intimacy she loved.

She curled up on the couch with a red plaid blanket that clashed horribly with her socks but matched his pajama pants almost exactly, and after he'd finished fussing with cream and sugar he brought over two cups of tea. There was a fire laid in the grate, but neither of them had bothered to light it.

"Tea?" he said, as though she hadn't just watched him prepare a cup exactly to her liking.

"Yes please," she said. He passed her the cup, and after her fingers had caught it he closed his hands around hers to gather the warmth. She used that grip to tug him down, careful so as not to spill the tea they held between them. His fingers tightened over hers and then released, but he flipped back a corner of her blanket and joined her underneath it; definitely an even trade.

"I have a question for you," Belle said, when it seemed that he wasn't going to do anything but gaze at her.

"Anything," he said.

"It's a technical question," she said, taking a sip of her tea and then setting it on the rough-hewn coffee table.

"Technicalities are something of a specialty."

"I'm probably not going to explain this well, but...how is it that we don't age, but we walk and talk and...and think and...and my hair grows, and my fingernails, and I still have my—my monthlies."

"Ah," he said. "It's that sort of question." He settled back, a thoughtful expression creasing his brow; he drummed his fingers idly against her knee as he worked for an explanation. After a moment he rose again. Belle watched in bemusement as he shuffled around the kitchen, collecting a small electric fan, a slip of paper, and a salt cellar. He plugged the fan into the closest socket and set it on the coffee table, and then poured a handful of salt onto the paper.

"The salt," he explained, "is a person. The fan"—he switched it on, and after a bit of fiddling it began to blow—"is time." He held the paper with its pile of salt in front of the fan; the salt blew away in the breeze. "The question is how you keep the person whole in the face of the fan." He dropped a little more salt onto the paper, until the hill was as high as his thumb.

"You could hold the paper above the breeze," Belle said.

He did, letting the paper hover just above the fan. "I could at this," he allowed, "but like this, there's no movement—a living creature held out of time like this would be frozen. Never aging, sure enough, but never talking, never walking. How else?"

"Add more salt as it blows away?" she guessed.

"Ah, there you go," he said. He held the paper in front of the fan again, but this time, as the salt blew away, he dribbled more onto the pile with his other hand. "And now the body moves and sleeps and wakes, held in a still moment but not still itself—it rejuvenates. A loop, rather than a fixed point. Renewal instead of suspension."

"It must be a very short loop," Belle said. "If nobody dies."

"Different from person to person," he said, turning off the fan and rejoining her on the sofa. "If Regina had any sense she would take that into account. Magic doesn't work the same way on any two people."

"Mmm," Belle said. "I suppose that's just one more thing I'll never do."

"What's that, dear?"

"Age." She twisted to tuck her cold feet up under his thigh and was pleased when he didn't seem to mind. In the dim lighting, his eyes were luminous. If she could bring herself to be honest, they'd always seemed slightly too large—at first she'd thought it was merely one more trick of his magic, but in this world he was fully human and yet his eyes still seemed inhumanly expressive. She'd learned to appreciate that, particularly at the times when the rest of his face and his body language gave away nothing of his thoughts.

"Most would be glad of that, I thought," he said. "Never growing any older..."

"Not me," she said. "I always looked forward to going gray. Not that it's going to happen now."

"Someday it will. I have no doubt that you'll grow old and have your adventures and...."

"See the world?" Belle wriggled her toes. "Read the Book of the Dead and learn to knit and have someone write me a love letter? I have quite a list—it might intimidate even you."

Beneath the covers, Rumpelstiltskin's hand fell to cup the back of her calf, but he was frowning. "You haven't been written a...."

"Well, have you ever written me one?" she teased.

"No."

"There you have it," Belle said. "I won't hold it against you provided you clean up the mess on the coffee table yourself." He shot her a dirty look, and she smirked. "I know you, you'll leave it there or set someone on top of it and then there will be salt everywhere, and I hate walking on grit."

"Didn't Gaston—?"

He clearly wasn't going to be distracted from the matter of the love letter, although there were things on her list she'd far prefer to experience—swim with a mermaid, for one, or write a play, or see her mother's face one last time. "Even if he were the letter-writing sort, he wouldn't write one to me."

"Was there no one else?"

"Now you're digging," she said, and his face turned a little rueful at being caught out. "What do you think my life was like before we met? Suitors throwing themselves at my feet, or what?"

"Streets strewn with flowers," he said. "Epics composed to your wit and composure and the like."

Belle laughed. "That was you, although it wasn't a street, as I recall. No, nobody but Gaston would even have me." Her laughter faded to a quieter, more private smile at his complete and utter consternation. "The townspeople all thought I was a little...off. They treated me well enough, but that was mostly because they respected my father."

"A little off," he echoed. "Ridiculous. Why ever did I agree to save such a wretched place?"

"I heard someone made a bargain with you." She sat up, shivering when the blanket fell away and the cool air raised gooseflesh on her arms—or perhaps it wasn't the cool air; perhaps it was that Rumpelstiltskin's hand had crept north of her calves until his fingers were brushing the bare skin high on her leg where her long wool stockings ended.

"It must have been a good bargain," he said, "or I wouldn't have bothered with a village of idiots."

"I wouldn't know," she breathed. A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he leaned into her and kissed her, hot and wet and with just enough force to belie the tenderness. They were both gasping by the time they broke away, and when Rumpelstiltskin looked at her with such adoration she knew he was going to say—

"I'd rate it as mediocre, as far as deals go. Not bad, but I once won a dragon egg for an afternoon's work with a goat."

Belle, with great alacrity and precision, bit him.


End file.
